


grace is somehow violent

by teavious



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6372391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teavious/pseuds/teavious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For days she refuses to speak, in fear the words might turn to a scream. Eliza-centered fic, exploring her side of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i can feel you lying there all on your own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- ok, hamilton got me totally obsessed and ELIZA is my absolute favorite character, so OF COURSE i had to write something for her, because she deserves so much more of everything, tbh  
> \- more characters & such will be added as we go. i initially wanted to wait until i am finished with the whole thing, but i am too excited to get out this fanfic into the world  
> \- there is maybe one more chapter? two if we're lucky and i have lots of ideas. or idk, who knows?

Eliza understands without actually wanting to what being the second daughter means. Their aunts and uncles sing the greatness of the Schuyler sisters, and then the wits of Angelica, the adorableness of Peggy. Then they lay their eyes on her, tilting their heads just the slightest to the left, suddenly at loss for a trait to be given to this silent kid with big eyes. She allows them five heartbeats, and then hurries after her sisters, leaving a small sigh as Peggy pushes her into Angelica, squeezes her between two embraces, flashing a big smile.

Eliza is young and just a child, but understands that she must accept what she is given, or she will never be satisfied. She scraps for attention like a dying god, trying to find a place for herself between Angelica’s everlasting hunger for more – knowledge, attention, power, freedom – and Peggy’s continuous requests, stories, charisma. It’s easy to feel dull and bitter in a family of bright young women, when it’s getting more and more obvious she’s the one falling short of the standards thrown by her legacy. But Eliza pushes forward, one gentle shoulder squeeze for a sister, a kissed cheek for the other, and puts the blazing fierceness of her disappointment in the love she holds for her closest family. And while Angelica becomes the wittiest and Peggy the prettiest, Eliza is the kindest.

The downward of having the Schuyler Sisters separated as such is that Eliza is the hardest to be noticed. Angelica never holds back her tongue, pushes and shoves against ideas and crumples ignorant sayings as easy as she ties her hair in the morning, and Peggy smiles and smiles, goes down in elegant curtsies and shines with the pure joy of the spoiled child. Eliza is silent most of the time, unwilling to wish for things or rebuff others, the peace-maker and the link, each of her arms hooked around those of her sisters’, the giddiness of being alive the only thing she needs, the only thing she wants to want.

 

* * *

 

Eliza is seven, at her own birthday party, with a plate of cake, uneaten yet, hold precariously on her open palm, as she squeezes past groups of kids and between long legs and big dresses. She can hear her father laughing in pleasure as Peggy recites poetry for a small gathering of friends, a small smile at the corner of the mouth as she remembers how many times her younger sister said it over and over again as they fell asleep the night before. Then she reaches a dark corner of the room, falling to the floor next to Angelica and pushing the plate towards her. Angelica accepts it, because this is her favorite cake, in spite of being Eliza’s birthday.

 At this time, she doesn’t think to question Eliza’s longing gazes towards some what-ifs, doesn’t see how her presents are actually meant to be used by all the Schuyler sisters. At this time, Eliza has wrist pains from all the imagining piano playing she’s done, mimicking the movement she’s seen in Angelica’s rehearsal hours, and keeps one sour candy under her pillow, for when she feels like eating it, because otherwise Peggy would have already snatched it. She has to bite her tongue, keeping it from not replying with _no_ when her sisters ask for her newest, prettiest dolls, and smiles with desperation whenever her father pats her head, compliments a new hair-do she tried her best to learn.

The two sisters stay there, together, in the dim light, while minutes pass, melting in joyous, adult conversation that they are still too young to be interested in. They look at couples dancing, men laughing loudly, throwing back their heads, women flushed from the alcohol, fanning themselves. Their own dresses stick to their skin in the warm, suffocating atmosphere, hair frizzy and tangled. In that moment, the world is only as large as this room, as uncomplicated as the always-the-same dance even they’ve been taught, and when Eliza’s hand finds Angelica’s, they smile at the same time, seeing the arm of a sleeping Peggy dangling from the couch as well.

**♦♦♦**

Few months later, Angelica gives up her piano lessons, just a matter of seeking out her father and telling him, flatly, that she doesn’t enjoy it as much as she would have liked to. He stares at her, his first born, his stubborn girl to whom he swore he will give whatever she wants, and sighs, the battle lost from the moment she entered his office.

 The music teacher remains a constant in their house either way, this time at Eliza’s side. She practices whenever she can, desperate to catch up with all that she missed, her fingers flying over the keyboards with the easiness of the pleased and happy. French comes to her easy enough, and the high numbering of her teacher is as familiar as the notes on the music sheets. Their sisterly meetings move into the living room, Angelica and Peggy sprawled on the couch, eating fruits and Eliza on the high chair in front of the piano, always doing more and more, her own success the only thing that will remain to be always improved. That is, until Angelica throws a grape at her sister, Peggy gasping at her side, erupting into laughter immediately afterwards, and Angelica gets a two seconds head start, running away from the tickles that will sure come from Eliza.

 **♦♦♦**  

Eliza is fourteen when she attends her first ball. They spend a whole afternoon getting ready, throwing dress after dress on the floor because it is not good just yet, playing with each other’s hair, ending up with letting it loose because it rolls around them when they twirl, just like their dresses. Their laughs stop in coughs from swallowing perfume, only to come back again even louder. They pinch each other’s cheeks until there are tears in their eyes, not because they don’t have any powder, just because they’re mean in their brilliance. Angelica is the only one, at least this time, that wears any rouge, and Eliza is the one who helps her apply it. For a few seconds, all three gather around the large vanity mirror, staring at the reflections and suddenly being aware of their merits.

They’re still laughing, half dazed and half awed, as they go downstairs to meet with their parents, and if their mother wants to tell them to properly behave, the booming laugh of her own husband stops her. The Schuyler sisters hold hands the whole way, their knees and elbows bumping into another’s sides as the carriage rolls, and Eliza isn’t aware of the booming rhythm of her heart until she gets off and doubts her legs will take her to where she is supposed to be. But Peggy drags at her hand and Angelica pushes her from behind, and with a deep breath, she walks.

They sit at the side, men not daring to ask them to dance, one too pretty, one too proud and one too shy. They look at the Schuyler sisters from afar, wishing there is more they can do. Peggy ends up running off to meet with some friends, blushing prettily when boys pass by, making her acquaintance and kissing her hand. Angelica plays with her fan, her arm brushing Eliza’s, leaning next to her, grinning.

“One of these men might be our husband one day, my dear Eliza.”

She sighs, and it seems this is exactly what her sister wanted, because her voice turns and twists and sounds so far away, when she talks of smart and brave enough men, to sweep her off her feet, to prove to be more than – and her nose wrinkles in disgust, though only Eliza, watching her profile, can actually see it- _them_. Then she speaks some more, of tender touches and passionate kisses, and suddenly Eliza can’t keep her blush in place anymore and has to take out her own fan, the more detailed her sister turns. She can hear the amusement in Angelica’s voice, and yet. And yet.

“I just want someone to love only me,” is what Eliza says when her sister stops, and it’s the first time Angelica notices the longing, the envy and selfishness in her sister. It terrifies her – the power she might have, to hold it all in place.

  **♦♦♦**  

She’s kissed at the next ball, in a corner where inexperienced and hurried hands push her, and Eliza doesn’t tell anyone she laughed right in his face after his lips left hers.

 **♦♦♦**  

Their first escapade starts like this: a bad idea coming from Angelica. But like any other bad ideas of hers, it catches the attention; it’s enough to spark curiosity in her sisters and that’s enough to get the thing done. Peggy stomps her foot, tells them there’s no way they won’t be caught, and when she sees them moving forward, she runs to catch up with them, grasping tightly at Eliza’s arm, and she’s there to welcome her fears and put a warm hand around her waist, easing her worries. Peggy melts in her sister’s embrace, and it turns out that she was right and they get caught. There’s no one in the town who doesn’t know who the Schuyler sisters are, and nothing spreads faster than gossip.

Angelica sits straight in front of her dad, and when he says no to her, she simply answers: _You don’t really expect me to stop, do you?_ , and that’s when Eliza knows that however big the trouble, she’ll follow her sister for as long as she can. She opens her mouth and takes the blame, and at least the troubled expression on her father’s face is easier to bear than Angelica’s mad gratitude at the chance of still keeping her books and her daily supervised walks in the town. Eliza sighs in pleasure when, for two months, she spends all the alone time with her own books and her own mind that she wants.

 **♦♦♦**  

A revolution is boiling in the country, a war already started with still no battles fought. It scares Eliza, how easy a peace that seemed unmovable is shaken up, how strongly the people rise under the right hand, how hard she wants to feel like she is part of the change, as well.

Her father wants to go to war, the streets are filled with enthusiastic to-be fighters, and Eliza understands only that history is being written right now, and they’re all meaningless, for not many had the chance to tell their own story.

 

* * *

 

In years of attending balls, there are not many things related to them that Eliza cares about anymore. But there’s still always a chance of something happening, now more so than before, and she needs only one glance in the direction of Alexander Hamilton to thank all the gods she hasn’t bailed.

Angelica is laughing by her side at something a rebel said, and in the exact moment when she wants to fake the same amusement, he’s walking into the room. He’s standing proud and something in the way he walks reminds her of her older sister when she is determined to get what she wants. She’s troubled for the first time in a long while, unsure what to do – the spotlight doesn’t need another Schuyler, and definitely doesn’t need Eliza. Her hand hovers above Angelica’s arm, her tongue wetting her lips, and she doesn’t even has it in her to blush when his eyes catch hers, between all the dancing couples, holding the gaze until her sister finally turns to her and gently pats her shoulder to get her attention.

Eliza’s eyes snap at Angelica, and she doesn’t have it in her to properly watch her sister, before she says, quite simply and possessively:

“He’s mine.”

It scares Angelica how easy it came out, how helpless her sister is, and yet ready to lay out all her cards on the table if only to get him to talk with her. She leans closer to Eliza, kissing her cheek, but it’s fast and her sister realizes that this will be won only with his choice. So Eliza waits, the music from the band as loud as ever, but not enough to cover the beats of her heart, her eyes glued on his form, as he takes Angelica’s hand and kisses it. His face, though, doesn’t turn to the woman in front of him, instead searching for her in the crowd, and she is feeling faint as he gets closer and closer.

He’s the most wonderful of flirts, and yet he’s so gentle when he touches her hand, his lips pausing over her skin a little bit more than proper, grinning.

He asks for a dance, when she would have given him even more. He glues her to his body, stronger than his scrappy frame makes him look, pushing her away, her body spinning around his, parts of their bodies always touching. When the song dies out, he gives her fingers a slight squeeze.

“May I… write to you, Miss Schuyler?”

Eliza breathes, trying with no success to stop her grin when he sounds so unsure.  “Of course. Of course.”  

 **♦♦♦**  

He writes unlike anything that she ever read, a mix of burning promises and pulsing thoughts, slow paced and constant prose despite the hurried writing. With his letters in her hands, she’s not the second daughter of the richest man in the town, but just an Eliza – _Betsey_ when he’s more daring, when his passion pours through paper and sets as a knot in her stomach – and she picks up her own quill, sets at her own desk, pushes a hand through her hair, as she imagines him doing, and starts writing. She can’t quite create worlds and palaces and a comfort space, as he does for her, but she twists her words to make them pretty and she puts into them only what she feels, hoping it is, will be enough.

 _My dearest, Alexander…_  

**♦♦♦**

 He visits in-between letters, either at her father’s request, discussing politics and sending messages to Washington through him, either dragged inside by her sisters, insisting he should stay for tea and small talk. He occupies the couch of their childhood, sitting right in the middle, flanked by the oldest and youngest of Schuyler sisters, Peggy talking with him there like he’s a part of the family, confiding in him, while Angelica starts never stopping banters of wits, pleased despite herself when she drives him in a corner.

Eliza is always the last to find out about his visits, going on a flight down the stairs to meet him and then having to breathe deeply as not to be obvious that she did that. She looks up to him from the doorway, hopeful and silent, knowing he didn’t come here for her but wishing it will be a strong enough reason to have him stay.  He rises the moment his eyes land on her, closing in the gap between them and kissing her hand, whispering her name, _Eliza_ , in a pained breath that only she can hear. It makes shivers run down her spine; it makes her not want to have to let him go.

Her parents waltz in followed by servants setting trays of tea and biscuits and jam on the low tables, making small talk with the guest about what they are most proud of – their own daughters. His interest piques only when he hears Eliza plays the piano the best out of all three of them, and she bites her lips before she gracefully makes an offer.

“Would you like me to play something for you?”

Alexander catches how she adds those last two words, especially for him to notice that if she does this, it’s because he’s him and it makes him an exception. And so, his gaze remains intently fixed on her the whole performance, breathless and a little bit more in love.

 **♦♦♦**  

  _Eliza,_

_I might just want to call you that for the rest of my life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, let's talk about how wonderful and complex and incredible of a character is eliza? the kindest person you can ever meet, and yet able to burn to ashes a man if she so wants to, able to write the history that has forgotten her (i am not crying, you are)  
> i love especially the idea of having her as the second daughter. i felt her struggles as a second born (kind of being one myself) so real and this is the main idea that i decided to play with in this fic.


	2. and we build it up, and we build it up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton, bending for marriage and then for war.  
> Elizabeth Hamilton, loving and waiting and loving some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♦ first of all, i want to thank all of you that supported this fic!! all your comments have been incredibly sweet and nice and encouraging, and so i am really grateful. this fic got so much more attention than i even hoped for?? and yeah, i am overwhelmed and really happy about it, thank you!!  
> ♦ secondly, this will be longer than i initially thought it would. so, if things go according to my plans (though they might expand), then i have around three-four more chapters  
> ♦ some details in here will not be historically accurate, because even if i actually want it to be, i simply don't have the time to do the proper research, so... bear with me, please  
> ♦ updates from now on will be rare. sorry, but i have important exams coming up (and ending only in july ;;) and not enough time devoted to studying; so yes, i don't know when i will post another chapter and i hope you will be patient  
> ♦ also, fun fact, my chapter titles come from 'atlantis' by seafret

Eliza understands without actually wanting to that she is in love. It’s in how much harder it is these days to stop herself from rereading his words over and over again, in how much she fears to let her sisters close enough to fall for him as hard as she did. Her eyes stop searching to see if her father gets enough sleep, if Peggy has properly untangled her hair before carrying on with her day, if Angelica is having any of her ideas. She refuses to see, because then she might care again, and she doesn’t want that either.

 Sometimes after a week and a bit of sharing daily letters – sometimes even more, messengers constantly running between the two of them, wearing the hopes of two lovers between their fingers – Alexander invites her for a walk. It’s the second shortest letter she receives from him, and now she knows there will be more, longer, tenderer ones to come after she gets to see his face.

She rummages through her wardrobe, presses her hair together in complicated braids, adds the faintest of perfumes behind her ears, at her wrists. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, picking apart the good and the bad, divided in various drawers of her mind: what she likes, what she dislikes, what she couldn’t care less for; what he might like, what he might dislike, and how she doesn’t truly cares about these last two, but can’t help but feel nervous anyway.

There’s commotion from downstairs, the enthusiastic run of Peggy as she passes in front of her room to be the first of the Schuyler sisters to greet Alexander, her laugh as he picks her up and twirls her around, in the unreserved way he learnt to act around her family. Eliza appears on top of the stairs at the exact same moment Angelica emerges from the library, and she is so grateful to see Alexander’s eyes glued on her, not leaving her face even as he takes Angelica’s hand, to kiss it.

Eliza falls into his arms like it’s the only place where she feels at home, where she feels like herself. Their bodies don’t exactly touch, just his arms hooked around her waist before he hurriedly drops them at his side, before his eyes fall to his feet and she has to softly touch his arm for him to allow her to take it. How easy it is for her to make him lost, improper and shy; it’s making her dizzy with power. She knows Angelica and Peggy stay side by side in the doorway, watching them walk away, and Eliza rises on her toes to whisper something in Alexander’s ear, bringing the broadest of smiles on his face.

The weather is chilly, but she refuses to glue herself to his side until he grabs her hand and pulls her closer to him, slipping one sloppy kiss to her fingers. They don’t walk for long enough, it seems to Eliza, to get used to his warmth and presence so close to her. He takes her to the botanical garden, where most of the flowers have already passed, and those that are still in bloom are crippled by cold, frozen by the night hoar.

He doesn’t walk on the normal path, the one she has always taken before, when she and her family visited. There’s one finger up to his lips, and he’s grinning at her just like he did in the night they’ve met, and Eliza quickens her pace to fall in steps with Alexander, following him down whatever road he’d prepared for them.

The greenhouse has a small entrance, and Eliza has to lower her head when she walks. Inside it’s warmer than even in her own house and she turns to Alexander, wickedly smiling at the sight of her head surrounded by all the red roses, in full bloom.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, before he closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around her. It’s am embrace like none he has given her, and her fingers clung to his jacket with all the helplessness she feels right now, so in love and enchanted by what he gives her, what he can give her.

She isn’t sure how she finally finds a bench to sit on, dizzy with his attention, with his focused eyes on her and her alone, for such a long while. She isn’t sure when her hands go cupping his face, her lips anywhere but over his own, the word _mine_ repeated over and over again.

Alexander smiles, his thumb whipping a tear on her cheek.

“And you, mine.” 

**♦♦♦**

She knows, rationally, that her father will never really oppose to their marriage. She knows that Alexander’s carefully chosen words will break through whatever walls her family might create, and yet she can’t stop her trembling hands, as she waits in the dining room. Her mother rubs at her shoulder, trying to calm her down, while she loudly snaps at Peggy, who explains something to Angelica, mouth filled with fruit tarts.

Eliza hears her father’s thunderous laugh first, the edge in his voice as he says Alexander’s name like it’s a threat, a weapon aimed at his daughter. She refuses to acknowledge it. She’s deafened by her sisters’ scream, Angelica lounging towards her, kissing her cheeks, Peggy up and sprinting to her dad and soon to be brother, giving both of them a hug at the same time. Her mother starts fussing all around them, stopping only to curtsy in front of Alexander, a hand patting his arm and smiling in pleasure.  She signals for her other two daughters to follow her, and Eliza can hear Peggy’s disappointed whine.

They have half an hour, tops, and Eliza doesn’t hesitate to grab his hand and close the door of the library behind them. She takes one step towards him, daring as she is dazed by happiness, by the reality of having him as her husband, and he takes a step back, frowning.

“Alexander.”

It’s the first time she’s using his name, and his face lights up instantly, searching her own, his eyes resting at her lips. He grabs her hand, kissing the spot at her wrist where her pulse quickens.

“My love… There’s so little I can give you,” he pauses, one more kiss dedicated to her skin; she can feel the place burning up,” that I fear one day it won’t be enough.”

Eliza takes one more step forward, curling her fingers around his hair, fitting her lips over his, half-smiling and so goddamn proud.

“Give me love.” 

**♦♦♦**

"Be careful with that one. He will do what it takes to survive," Angelica tells her that night, and Eliza schools her features in a scowl as to not laugh.

Of course he'll do, that is obvious for everyone who spends more than ten minutes around him. But what they all don't know is that he will also do what it takes to keep her by his side. 

**♦♦♦**

She realizes three fundamental truths at the exact same time.

One. Alexander Hamilton is just a man. Brilliant in his ideas as he is, he remains still a man, with not enough people to understand him that he ends up being called a genius anyway. She has never met anyone that ever matched that part of her life, that made the contrast between the world and the self so painfully obvious, and she likes to think she understands him better than he likes to think she does. She likes to think this should be enough for just a man.

Two. Elizabeth Schuyler will never be satisfied. She will take all she can from this man, and at the end of the day, she will continue to ask for more.

Three. If there are any rules that apply to children in a good family, Eliza feels only the pressure of a name that will not remain hers for too long anymore. The middle child can do what she can, she’ll already have someone else doing it better, before her, and someone else ready to erase her mistakes with future actions. This is what brings her to Alexander’s side, a marriage that promises only as much as the man who’s taking the daughter away, and suddenly she wants to prove them all wrong. She is not helpless. She will not be helpless. She swears it.

And when he leans over to kiss her, Eliza surges forward, eager and open mouthed, bending her ideals to the way he says her name, next to his, and calls him her husband. 

**♦♦♦**

Eliza dances so much at her wedding that her feet hurt for days afterwards. It starts with Alexander holding her in his arms for what feels like hours, never tired of reminding her of her new status, never tired of touching her. She passes between her sisters, shares a dance with her father, which weirdly enough cries when he has to let her go. She runs as quickly as she can from her relatives, refusing to look for too long on Alexander’s side of guests, because it is so empty, so filled with only uniforms and war talk.

She makes her way towards them, uncaring even as she stops them all from their current discussions. Washington takes her hand, congratulates her, and she graciously dips her head forward. She notices the lingering, almost uncomfortable gazes that they shoot in her direction, until John Laurens asks her for another dance. These are the people that will always take away her husband from her, these are the people that will share their lives with him almost as intimately as she will, and she wants to know them.

“Thank you,” she whispers softly to Laurens, as they take their position. From the corner of her eye, she can see Alexander talking with Peggy, her head thrown back in a hearty laugh, so much like their father’s. “You’re his best friend, and yet here we are, talking for the first time.”

“Ah, so you’ve discussed me.”

Elizabeth smiles. “Like you’d expect him to do otherwise.”

“He holds you in incredible high regard, Elizabeth.” She doesn’t flinch at the use of her first name. “You might be his one and only weakness, as it is.”

“And him, mine.” Her hold strengthens over his fingers.

He understands what she doesn’t need to say: so keep him safe, so don’t take him too far away. Laurens brings her back to their own table, slips a glass of wine in her hand, and she can’t help but laugh when Lafayette comes and kisses both of her cheeks, when Mulligan is the one straightening the veil on her head. 

**♦♦♦**

Elizabeth Schuyler cries on her wedding night, but the reason is a secret she will not share with anyone. 

 

* * *

 

She wonders, sometimes, how would have been to get married during a time of peace, with a man that is not the literal backbone of a revolution. But she takes it – their marriage, his relentless paces as he awaits news from the general, the way he goes up on his toes with excitement when some of his revolutionary friends come visiting, the two weeks he gives her and only her, after their marriage.

She falls in love with the way his hair curls in the morning, before he carefully ties it at his back, only for her to push her fingers through the loops when they eat their breakfast and she can’t quite stop the fresh fascination his presence brings into her. She bathes in his focused attention, the way his eyes never quite leave her no matter what he does, or how he sometimes remains with a hand hanged in the air while writing, simply because she’s playing the piano. There are days when she has to drag him for a walk, after he sat in his chair for too many hours, and she enjoys seeing his worries decreasing, obvious in the way his face relaxes while sun-bathed, in how he cups her hand in his and actually holds a conversation that doesn’t involve war schemes and deadly theories. It reminds her of the letters he wrote to her, but she knows this is just a side of him, so when they return home, she retreats in an armchair with a book, and he takes his place back, and they let the day pass by.

Then there are the evenings when he comes to sleep at the same time as her, but he doesn’t have sleep on his mind. A touch just rightly placed at her back, fingers dancing to undo her corset, a low, rumbly whisper close to her neck and she breaks open, always trustful, always giving everything with a kiss, with a look. Eliza knows only one way to love: fiercely and helplessly. So why does it surprise her that, once they’re done, Alexander only calls her _enchantress_ before biting her shoulder, gathering her in his arms?

Then there are the nights when Alexander falls asleep and when he wakes up, he wishes he never had in the first time. Those are the times when he dreams of his hardships as a child, when his body feels as weak as when his mother died, when he wakes with the sound of bullets whooshing by and his heart erratically beating in his chest. Eliza is always awake before him, her limbs all wrapped around him, a sooth tune of a lullaby tripping over words as she sleepily goes on, waiting for him to calm down. She doesn’t understand how he can go through this and still want to get back on the battlefield ( _because their future nation is more important than one individual_ , he’d reply if she ever asked, and then she’d want to cry because that’s how much he underestimates just how much he means for her, and so she never does ask), but she accepts it openly and proudly, as what he is, what makes him the man she loves.

He rolls in the bed, turning to face her, his nose almost bumping into hers, and she stops singing, her lips pressed in uncertainty of what it is to be done next.

“I’m sorry, Eliza. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

She’s not sure if it’s only in her mind, but he sounds strangely weak. She leans a little bit closer, kissing him somewhere below his eye.

“Shh. I know, I know.”

In the end, even if she doesn’t want to, she sends him off when he has to go. And, as a wife, as a woman, she has to remain at home. 

**♦♦♦**

The world seems to burn, sometimes, with the knowledge that she belongs to someone, that that someone belongs to her, and yet they’re apart. At first, it feels weird, suddenly shifting her existence back to how it’d been what feels like years and years ago. She visits her family during the weekends, goes out in town with her sisters sometimes, and she plays piano, hour after hour until her fingers burn with exhaustion, until the songs don’t sound to her like thrills to get him back, keep him alive. She knows it’s stupid, and so she goes out more, drags Angelica over, talks recently read books with Peggy, and she continues until she starts being nauseous and tired and her mother has to rush in to bring her calming teas and sound advice.

She presses a hand over her still flat stomach, fingers spreading possessively, and she thinks, almost hungrily, already: _this one, mine too._ It scares her how much pleasure she takes in such things, in building up what feels like a palace of happiness, the comfort of a family she wants Alexander to take with the same desperation as his desire for legacy and honor. It’s not quite done, so when she picks up her quill and puts it on a paper, she doesn’t write a letter addressed to her husband, but to his general instead. And then she sighs, sits in her armchair, Alexander’s absence ever obvious in the house they share and she prepares for waiting.

**♦♦♦**

She feels his turmoil rather than having him speak of it. She’s heavy with relief at seeing him well, and heavy with a child that makes everything ten times harder than it would have been otherwise.

“Alexander.”

Only then does he dare look up at her, his frown growing deeper, for long seconds unable to piece up the meaning of her appearance. She takes his hand, she guides it at her belly, feels it trembling in her hold, his fingers flattening over her body; _mine, ours_. Eliza feels sick all over again, by being so near him – it feels like everything that she’s done the past months, on her own, had simply been prequels to this glorious, glorious moment.

“How long have you known?”

His voice almost breaks at the end of the question and she steels herself against whatever is to come. She tells the truth; because this is the thing she owes him most in this situation. His reaction comes in waves: disbelief, almost laced with betrayal and she’s not sure she can actually take it.

“I’m not sorry.”

She knows if he had known before, he would have jumped where the battle was the heaviest, to try and bring more and more glory upon his name, upon his unborn child and if it wouldn’t have killed him, it would have surely killed her knowing him out there so recklessly betting what she so helplessly needed. He waits, stiff, for more of her words, looking almost like she’s punishing him with the truth of her phrases, with how thoroughly she understands him. She knows he’s disappointed, having left things unfinished, but she’s greedy and wants him here, with her and the son that is to come.

She steps closer and he doesn’t move away from her. She takes his hand, and his fingers wrap around hers. He’s still not quite looking at her, but the familiarity of the gesture grounds them both. She is not sure she will truly convince him of what she is ready to face for him, but when he runs away, she follows and tries anyway.

“You’re alive, after all you’ve done and been through. And you’re by my side, which is the only thing that I can ask for. I know who I married and our life together is the least thing I fear for.”

So stay, she says. So somehow give this child I bear all the good and light in you, she says. So we do not need a legacy and all the things you work so hard for, she says. So let me walk next to you, since I know already need and desire are quite the same thing for you, she says.

So let my arms be your own comfort place, when you’ll need and desire it, is what Eliza doesn’t say, but he thanks her for anyway, with a wretched kiss at her pale hand, which he has grabbed at so terribly throughout all her speech, with the most boisterous expression on his face: _mine, all this mine._

**♦♦♦**

“Eliza,” he whispers her name, tests to see if she is still awake, lying next to him. A hand flutters in the air, a mumble muffled in the pillow.

“Let’s name him Phillip.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♦ ok you know what actually trying to rewrite already perfectly conveyed feelings in the musical into some other written form is hard?? pfue  
> ♦ i like my depiction of eliza ;_;  
> ♦ HEADCANON that the "shh, i know, i know" it's a running phrase in the hamilton family whenever something bad is happening/someone is trying to apologize for something 
> 
> THINGS THAT KEEP ME UP AT NIGHT (part i):  
> ♦ how happy hamilton is when he sings the part "my life's gon' be fine 'cuz eliza's in it"  
> ♦ do you think how in 'alexander hamilton', maybe each character sings about what they know most about hamilton's life? eliza singing about his mother? alexander telling eliza about it??  
> ♦ how eagerly eliza kisses hamilton when they get married?? aaaahhh....  
> ♦ how proud eliza is when she says "i'm not sorry"
> 
> okay, that's it. man, i love hamilton.


	3. the hurt just leaves me scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *DUN DUN DUN* ALEXANDER.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, a long chapter to make up for the very long absence. At least we're finally done with Act 1, and that's very exciting for me! Happy one year, Hamilton, thanks for destroying our lives constantly. Dedicated to my Ham friends, who somehow accept me blabbering about my ideas, always.

Eliza knows she’s lucky to be alive right now. She’s weaving wishes and hopes into the future that is to come and she’s simply happy when she sees it being accepted by her husband as well. Alexander remains at her side for a while, worried and at the same time disappointed in himself for never actually wanting to go back. He never wanted harder in his life to not have to scrape by for fame. He learnt a long time ago that nothing lasts forever, and even if it’s a lesson freshly set in Eliza’s mind, she understands it. That they have to enjoy whatever this is while they can.

So, when Alexander wants to get out of bed at the same time the sun rises, Eliza catches his wrist and sleepily asks him to stay, sleep in with her. For now, there’s no duty demanding his presence, no tactics needing his brains. Just a wife wanting him near, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to fall back in bed besides her. Eliza though cannot fall asleep again. She looks at his long lashes, fluttering against his cheeks in the rhythm of his breathing, notices the sun rays catching in his hair, warming the arm left above the blankets. She smiles, getting closer to him, letting a hand run through his locks, her fingers dancing across his arm, leaving goose bumps behind. His reactions are almost instinctual, made softer and clumsy by the sleep, and for this she loves them even more. He yanks a leg over hers, skin on skin, shifting until his weight doesn’t fall too heavy on her body, until his cold feet are glued to her warmer ones, and she has to hold in a surprised yelp. His hand searches for her waist, dragging her closer, his other hand resting on top of her belly. She smiles softly, remembering how sure he is in his prediction that their first child will be a boy.

Eliza likes to imagine him having her sister’s curls, Alexander’s smile and brilliance. She gives him nothing of hers; noting nothing worthy of sharing in her own traits.

*******

As always, a letter is the thing that changes Eliza’s life. She expected it, as news of the battles came pouring in, as Alexander started pacing around the house, boiling with the idea that he’s not needed. She wants to say that she needs him, but she knows it won’t matter, it won’t help. Instead, she pushes a tea cup in his hands, watches him sigh defeated as he sits in an armchair.  

When the letter arrives, it’s gray from gunpowder and has the fingertips of Marquis de Lafayette all over it. For a few seconds, she blinks at the man from the doorway, almost unrecognizable as he is dirty and tired from the road. Then, she takes the letter, allows him to come inside, has a quick meal ready for him. Alexander takes the letter from her hands, his fingers brushing hers, and reads it out loud, so that she can hear what news it bears too. She’s glad for his thoughtfulness and sick at what it asks from this man that is her husband. She goes upstairs before he gets to hear her sobs and cries in his military jacket, the worried discussions between Alexander and Lafayette in the background.

She’s waiting with his jacket in her hands when they’re done and ready to step out the door, helps him put it on, brushes his shoulders in what gesture of sadness she can show in front of men for whom freedom tastes like the promise of eternity. Alexander stalls in the doorway, and the moment Lafayette leaves first, checking on his horse, he turns on his heels to face his wife. She can feel his eyes measuring her up, tracing the lines of her body, each detail of her face, like he wants to imprint her in his memory forever. Even as she is right now, tired and scared, disheveled from morning sickness, made clumsy by her ever-growing belly. Alexander steps closer, furious, maybe mad that he has to leave just now, and kisses her.

Eliza takes it all in: his chest heaving so near hers, his fingers resting at the nape of her neck, the flush overtaking his cheeks and the resolution in his eyes. She lets him go and thinks, bitterly, of the single request she ever addressed to a man and how it was ignored, already twice. For the greater good, for the future, for the revolution, they will tell her later on. For her, it won’t matter.

*******

Her sisters come to visit that evening. There’s no merriment in their discussion, no jovial greeting, no amusing reminders of her husband. Eliza hugs them both close to her chest, receives kisses and warm pats and she finds herself comforted by their presence, by the familiarity of their group. Peggy places a plate of food before her, knowing for sure Eliza didn’t bother to eat that day, while Angelica rubs her back, trying to calm her down. They talk of their father, on the front for longer still than Alexander, but in their tales he’s much younger and surrounded by three small girls. They talk of Angelica and of her quest of finding and marrying a worthy man. Eliza notices the strained smile, the way her sisters fists her hand and she knows of something she doesn’t want to think about. They talk of Peggy’s art projects, and this at least is a safe ground.

“He’ll come back to you, dearest sister,” Peggy says, rolled on the couch to rest her head in Eliza’s lap, waiting for the baby’s hits, her ankles showing. Angelica stills, gathering cups and plates from the table, and Eliza lets her hands wander in Peggy’s hair, braiding it with fast and practiced hands. She thinks, stupidly given the situation, that she’d like a daughter too.

Angelica leaves the room. Peggy looks up, searching Eliza’s face, and squeezes her sister’s cheek in the queerest affectionate way, coming from a younger sister. It hits her that Peggy is wiser, more mature.

“He always does. You’re his home.” Eliza leans, kissing the forehead of her sister, finally grateful. Her heart booms with the knowledge that their love burns so deeply, so obviously into people’s memory, though that might be just Peggy loving them both enough to notice their relationship so accurately.

This, spending time with her sisters, is a nice feeling. It reminds her of her childhood, even though they’re all so changed from that time. Maybe that’s why, when she has to follow her sisters, she only gently touches their arms, and instead floors herself into her new house, to her new family. She likes how the only times when she took a decision for herself in the Schuyler family, was when she had Alexander giving her the courage to do so.

  *******

Her house turns empty and lonely, as days and weeks pass. She thinks of Alexander, prays for his safety. She thinks of her father, prays for his well-being. She puts her letters in orders, waiting, hoping for more to come. She cleans up his office and thinks, dumbly, that he forgot his glasses. She almost cries right in that very moment, thoughts stupidly matching together and she blinks it all away as she holds onto his desk, as she wills herself to not think of the worst.

Then, something surprising happens. As days wash over the house, so do Alexander’s friends. They’re fighting in a revolution, but between all the spying and blood shedding, all the work and despair, they make enough time to knock at her door. She likes to believe Alexander didn’t tell them to do so, that they decided she’s worthy enough on their own; she’s glad for their presence either way.

The first that comes by is John Laurens. When she finds him standing on her doorstep, fidgeting with his hat between his fingers and looking anywhere but her face as she’s speaking, she stammers.

“John! I mean, Laurens. Mr. Laurens.” She finishes, lamely, pressing a hand at her forehead and trying to ignore the blush creeping on her cheeks. Then he grins, knowing that she’s only surprised, but not upset, and she grabs his arm with all the friendliness and kindness he expects from the wife of his best friend, from someone he finds he can very easily call his friend, too.

He refuses any seat but the one at the kitchen table, watching Eliza as she puts some water to boil, as she warms up the food she’s cooked a night before. His chest swells knowing this is her routine only, not a servant’s, no a slave’s. He can read the contempt she takes from having something to focus on, and only then does he notice how every sound echoes, even as the house isn’t really that big to begin with.

Eliza doesn’t ask him about the war, because she knows it sticks to him, to all of them, like a second shadow and the least she wants is to be reminded, as well, that her husband falls asleep with the sound of bullets in his ears. Instead, she asks about his family, about his dreams. About what made him and Alexander the close friends they are now. He tells her all of it, and fills even the gaps that she doesn’t feel she quite yet has the right to ask about, and her eyes are warm as she looks at this man, this so young man sitting beside her.

Taking his hands in hers feels like the right thing, and for long minutes they remain in silence, grieving the true unspoken facts, sharing their fear, making it easier to bear. It’s in this silence they share that things fall into place between them, that they decide they’d like to know each other more, better.

He leaves with a fading lipstick mark on his cheek, and leaves behind a letter bearing Alexander’s handwriting and all the hopes of his wife. Eliza sits at the front door until she cannot see him anymore, and then goes to wash the dishes.

Lafayette is the next, and he says _bonjour_ so happily, so unminding that she can’t help but smile. She sits the other two, lower soldiers he brought with him on the couch, but later on allows them to wander around the room looking at proof of the common life the man they admire leads. She and Lafayette take their seats on the armchairs, sipping at their coffees, and all the time, he speaks only in French, his eyes lighting up when Eliza replies with perfect accent and a one joke he only heard his father saying.

He closes his eyes against his subordinates’ urgings, and this time, when he mentions it, they actually remain still on the couch. Then, with his eyes glistening with mischief, he asks Eliza to play something for him. She takes two minutes to find the one, only fitting song to delight him with, and she has to still her hands from shaking, with the excitement she feels when his mouth opens a little in recognition.

It’s a merry, French song that he has insisted they dance on her wedding night. He sings along the words to her piano playing, and if his voice trembles a little as the pace slows done, no one present comments upon it. Eliza remembers, alongside this strange, foreign man a time when all was easier, when the revolution was just a word to pass the brave one’s mouth, and not a reality that bites at their heart. It doesn’t feel strange, foreign at all.

When they leave, no more delay accepted in their schedule, Lafayette thanks her. Eliza is the one feeling grateful, and as he gathers her in his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead, he whispers, just for her to hear:   _Tu es son coeur._

Hercules Mulligan comes with a bottle of whiskey, like he’s forgotten she cannot actually drink, pregnant as she is, and asking for a warm bed for a night. She grabs the bottle from his hands either way, and opens the door a little bit wider. He laughs, patting her back, and this is such a him thing to do, such an honest, uncontrolled gesture, that she knows, understands that he thinks of her as any of his other friends. Just because she isn’t holding a gun poised at a British head, just because her dresses aren’t quite made for living in the trenches, it does not lower her in his eyes.

It is a revolution in itself to steel yourself and wait for it, wait for it, wait for it. Your demise or your rise.

Hercules Mulligan compliments her cooking and her good taste in decorating the house. He smiles at Alexander’s small portrait, hanged in their hallways, the only sign that he once was nineteen, even if his mind was older. It’s Eliza’s favorite, as well.

As evening comes, he sits in Alexander’s place and smiles like he knows just exactly what he’s doing. Eliza can’t hold a grudge against him, since it’s proof that he cares. He takes the alcohol he’s brought with him and refuses the glass she offers him, drinking directly from the bottle. She embroiders her initials on a handkerchief and waits for his face to get redder, for his body to eventually relax. He’s almost like a cat ready to attack, his muscles strained and always alert.

Half an hour later, she laughs alongside him, hearing of mishaps in the British camps, and she knows it’s supposed to be confidential. The blind trust he has in her warms her heart. The way in which he finds his solace, his comfort in the resemblance of normalcy he knows of – a wife, left behind; a married couple, but apart for now- leaves her a little breathless.

He’s the only one that breaks down in front of her, but she blames the alcohol for this; or the control the others have upon their emotions. She lets him rest his head in her lap, asking her to not let any of them die, and they both know she can’t promise that. She remains tight lipped, letting her fingers pass through his hair, in what little comfort she can provide. Then, as sudden as he started, he stops. He goes up, straightening his back, his clothes. He apologizes, accepts only the soft touch at his collar, as she puts him back up together.

In the morning, she wakes up to an empty house once again. There’s only a small note on Alexander’s desk. _At least don’t allow him to forget us_ , and, well, this is a request she can fulfill.

*******

The world turned upside down. But Eliza feels like it’s finally standing right, like she can finally fit between its folds. And she breathes, for the first time, the air of their new nation, the air of success. There’s nothing different from before, and it breaks her that she will have to admit, eventually, that she saw no point in what the war made of the men she once knew as whole.

  *******

Then, slowly, things finally become what she wanted. Alexander comes back home, the smell of gunpowder still stuck to his skin, his clothes color-changed from dirt. She hugs him like it’s been years, and giggles when his stubbles stick to her cheek. She cares nothing of nothing else, and honestly, it’s quite intoxicating, knowing him back.

She prepares his bath as he relates her everything that he’s done, every brilliant tactical plan, every drunken fight he’s gotten into – _I’m not really sorry for any of them, the damn assholes very well deserved it!-_ his enthusiasm translated into his body language as well. He hands her piece of clothing after piece of clothing, going around the whole house, checking out for any changes that he might have missed, that she might have forgotten to talk about in her letters. Only with Eliza’s gentle hand at his back does he stir, finally, in the direction of the bathroom, before the water turns cold. She smiles at him the whole way, and she knows she will never be able to deny him anything, if it makes him so happy.

She wonders, at the same time, if her _yes_ has made such a babbling mess out of him, as well. Then, she remembers her visitors, and she thinks that yes, it might have. She does not tell him of his friends, though, somehow guessing that whatever happened, it’s a strictly personal thing. Eliza has yet to betray the trust of someone.

With a hand, she disentangles the knots in Alexander’s hair, the other being kissed by his lips, as he soaks into the tub. He sighs when she adds a little bit of pressure to her massaging, and he leans a little lower into the hot water. He looks so content, so calm to just be there, and Eliza feels herself falling into a panic attack, as she thinks that this might have been an image never to be seen. She moves closer to him, letting her weight fall to one of his shoulders, locking her arms around his body, even as she gets wet in the process. Alexander is alert the next moment, raising a hand to slowly caress her temple.

“I love you so much, Alexander.”

Then, like magic, their thoughts are the same again. She’s not proud of how her voice cracked when she said his name, but she is not good at hiding her helplessness from him. Her husband turns around, finally facing her, and she takes a sharp breath of air, eyes stuck on a healing scar on his chest. She looks at him, somewhat between disbelief and disappointment, and he lets her look at him, fully, seeing the changes on his body, figuring out those in him. He takes her hands, kisses the inside of her wrists. She almost sobs, so instead she presses a kiss to his scar, Alexander’s breath hitching in his throat. Then, she kisses the skin at his jaw, his unshaven cheeks, his lips. Then, she says it again, to make sure he understands she means it now, too.

“I love you so much, Alexander.”

“Betsey…” he breathes, and the nickname leaves her weak, and finally reassured of his presence, of his safety. And only when she has him in her arms, when there’s no way she can salvage this one outfit, does he speak again.

“I’m home.”

  *******

The first time most people knowing Miss Hamilton hear her swear, it’s when she’s screaming it, trying to go through the pains of birth. She has asked for only two people to be next to her as it happens: her sisters, Angelica and Peggy. The only ones she trusts with loving this child from the very second he comes into this world, simply because it is _hers._ It is the most selfish thing she will ever ask of them, it’s utterly horrible and miserable of her to require this of them, but she does it anyway.

She knows she has her sisters’ soft flesh under her nails. She thinks of only the old lady’s soothing voice, begging her to try harder, her hardest. She thinks of Alexander’s face, panicked and utterly defeated as she walked into this room and left him behind. But this is hers, hers only: he sweated to give birth to a nation, she’ll sweat to give birth to their first child.

There are way too many people waiting just outside this one door, and it makes her dizzy, hearing all their voices when the door opens for one of her sisters to run and fetch something else needed. She feels a contraction again, grits her teeth against the pain, sucks in a breath… and then she screams as hard as she can, this the only way she knows to relieve it, this the only situation where she’s forgiven this. By now, she imagines all of Alexander’s revolutionary friends – _and hers,_ she thinks as she blinks- must be here, palms pressed to his shoulders, sharing the shudders when hearing her screams, shrinking under Angelica’s stares when her husband starts putting too many questions.

“You’ll hold your child as tight as you can, soon enough.” Is what Angelica tells the man waiting outside, is what she whispers in her ears, to calm her down.

Eliza needs her older sister’s words, trusts them. So, when the old lady asked to come orders her to push like her life depends on it, she does just that. Because if, if, if… She can’t continue her thoughts, because it’s easier to breathe now, her child’s screams deafening in her ears. She lets her head fall back, exhausted and grateful that it is done, that her life, Alexander’s is as normal, as lovely as it comes.

The door slams to the wall, and all she can actually see are three backs turned to her, and Alexander’s wide, wide eyes. She doesn’t have the strength to even smile, as Angelica hands the baby to his waiting arms. He looks at the little life in his arms with such reverence, and then at her face with such admiration, that she knows she’ll hold his tormented, insatiable soul in her little hands for the rest of his life. He barks orders, scatters everyone away, allows her to hold her son – _her son!-,_ gathering the blankets around her body, pressing his lips to her temple.

“I’m a father,” Alexander says, and his eyes cannot leave the baby in her arms.

“That you are,” Eliza nods, nuzzling closer to his neck, letting herself be held in these stunned moments where she can swear she hears his mind at work. Then, unexpectedly, he bursts into tears. For the first time, he’s rendered speechless, a mumbling mess. She can make out only _perfect_ and _thank you_ and she can guess what this is about. She can feel her own tears falling.

That’s how everyone else finds them. Angelica opens the row of people ready to see the new addition to the Hamilton family, but Eliza looks only at her younger sister, beaming at her like she performed the world’s greatest miracle; at the men awkwardly standing in the doorway, worried and awed. Eliza nudges Alexander with her shoulder, disentangling herself from his hold, allowing the others to get close. Laurens kisses her forehead, sweaty as it still is, catches Philip’s tiny fingers in his hands, holds them for a second before he lets go. Mulligan is the one who has the courage to actually hold him, and the poor baby looks even smaller, comically so, held at his chest. But he doesn’t mind the amused stares, his focus solely on this new life that is not even one hour old. Then he looks at her, and it surprises her with how much clarity she can read him: _you brought us life when we expected death._ This time, she actually smiles. Lafayette takes her hands in his, burns his thanks into her skin, and –oh, they are all Philip’s uncles.

This realization makes her cry again, and Hercules passes the baby back to Alexander, before they all three hug her at the same time. If her neck or shoulders are wetter when they back away… well, only she will know.

  *******

She likes how happy Alexander gets when he sees her feeding their – _their!-_ son. She likes how the first thing he tells her, after he realizes he isn’t quite dreaming, is that Philip has her eyes. She likes how his world has, now, two suns: herself and her son. She likes how he wakes up in the middle of the night at the first cry Philip lets out, and he not even once tells her it should be she the one doing this. She does not sleep, because she likes watching him with his son way too much. Maybe that it’s her sin, enjoying what is but a small respite way too much.

  *******

As always, a letter is the thing that changes, this time, their – _their!_ \- lives. Eliza is the one welcoming the messenger, and she trembles in the doorway for a long time, eyes fixed upon the unfamiliar writing, until Philip cries. She has to make an effort to move, to silence his cries when all she wants is to join him, and she doesn’t know how she is supposed to walk the eleven steps to her husband’s office, knock on his door and let him know whatever this letter holds. She does it anyway, because she knows Alexander would have hated being sheltered now, when he is prepared for any blow, because he’s been happy for so long. Eliza wants to scream, half of year nothing near to the amount of time she wished to bring happiness into his life.

Eliza walks the eleven steps to her husband’s office, knocks on his door even though she knows she never actually has to, her presence welcomed. She doubts he’ll like it now.

“You have a letter,” she says, and watches his mouth quirk upwards, word from John Laurens wanted and expected. He flutters a hand through air, pausing his pen, everything on hold for his best friend. She takes a deep breath, steps closer to him, ignores the way his eyes follow her from behind the glasses’ frame.

“It’s from John’s father.” The change is instant; the smile falls, the pen drops to the floor, the hand he extended fisted with denial. When he asks her to read it to him, she has to bite her lip to stop her hand from trembling for long enough so that she can open the wax seal. Alexander raises from his chair during the letter, gets closer to her, drinks up each of her words. She has to take a break to regain her breath every other two sentences, keeping her mind focused on anything else but the pulse of pain she feels throbbing in her throat.

When she’s done, when she’s finally raising her eyes from the black rows of truths she doesn’t want to acknowledge, Alexander is looking away. She allows him five heartbeats, and then touches his arm tentatively; right now, she has no right to act upon her grief.

“Are you alright?” She sees his trembling jaw, the moisture of his eyes. Then he runs, like she’s not his wife, like she doesn’t know whom she married.

He’s in their bedroom, crying. She’s in his office, crying. Philip is quiet in his room, and so the Hamiltons mourn. They easily avoid each other all throughout the day, their patterns and habits familiar, but they can do it only until nightfall. Alexander doesn’t have that much work yet, Eliza can’t stall in the baby’s room for that long. When she steps into the bedroom, for a long time, he simply stares at her. She allows him that. She allows him to touch her with urgency, with fervor, wanting to feel her warm and moving and alive under him. She bites her lips when he enters her, makes no sounds that might unbalance him, and gives only a barely audible moan when she comes. It’s funny how she’s learnt to be silent in an empty house, simply because it felt like a profanity to scream his name in pleasure when he wasn’t there. It doesn’t feel much better now.

Alexander holds her afterwards, breathes in her scent. She feels his tears on her neck.

“You’re alive,” he says, and she knows that another blow like that would destroy him.

They go to the funeral together, having Peggy take care of Philip. Alexander holds onto her hand as hard as she does, and they start crying at the exact same time.

  *******  

They move back to New York afterwards. The city feels familiar, loud and vibrant and alive, alive, alive. Mocking. She wonders if she’s the only one seeing it.  

  *******

Alexander falls back to the comfort of his work the moment he has a chair and a desk in his new office. Eliza watches everything getting unpacked, points to where the furniture should fit, carries the important, fragile boxes herself, trusting no one to take proper care of them. She does not ask her sisters for help, and she’s grateful that at least Philip’s room is the one they pulled together first. His office is the second. Their bedroom still only has the bed, and they’ve ate out daily the past week. Somehow, she learns to sail through this, all while making sure her husband takes short breaks, to either hold Philip and sing to him, to either have his fingers massaged by hers. It’s maybe too little, but at least it is something, she thinks.

Not long after he has the law perfected, he starts practicing it. She ties his hair every morning before he leaves, having to steal hurried kisses out of him, giddy as a child to prove a point that Burr doesn’t even care about. He writes, never-ending pages on never-ending topics, pushes his way to places where he shouldn’t normally belong through his words. Sometimes, even she’s not aware that he’s making history. That he’s doing it for her, for their son. But, most of all, for himself.

And she can forgive the selfishness of this man, who only learnt to take and to make maybe too late to stop him now. So he writes, comes home and spins her around when his words get him where he wants them to, but at the same time, makes nothing out of his accomplishments, everything of his future goals. He will never be satisfied.

In the middle of the night, he simply gets out of bed, gets dressed and leaves. Eliza sits still in the bed, awake, until he comes back, and she welcomes him with open arms.

“What was that about?” she asks, touching his freezing cold face, gluing herself flush to his body.

“I want to – I need to write something.” His lips clumsily find an ear instead of her lips, and he sighs, letting his head fall to the pillows, suddenly too tired. He wants to tell her more, to explain what exactly he has in mind, but he’s too warm, too comfortable to try and stay awake.

“Shhh. I know, I know.”

Understanding doesn’t necessarily means acceptance, but Alexander takes it anyway and simply… goes for it, like he’s running out of time.

*******

When Angelica leaves an ocean away, Eliza can’t stop the first five seconds when she feels just pure joy. Then, she feels horrible for that and buries herself in her sister’s embrace, kisses her cheek and pleads for her happiness, but far away from her own.

When Alexander starts his new project, Eliza can’t stop the first five seconds when she feels just pure defeat. Then, she feels horrible for that and relishes in the feeling of his lips pressed against her knuckles and pleads for a way to better-fit into his life, to know how to give to him what he doesn’t seem to find anywhere, peace.

They will never be satisfied. And yet, Eliza continues to love her sister. And yet, Eliza continues to try. Even when knowing, more and more certainly, that it will not be enough.

  *******

“Alexander!” Her voice cuts; it never did that before, not when it comes to him. She wonders if she even passed through his mind when he took a decision that will shape her future, as much as his.

"This is all I've ever wanted," he says, as his eyes glint with enthusiasm and his hands shake slightly, ready to work and work and work like there is no tomorrow. The uncertainty of the next day might be his excuse, but Eliza does not believe in it.

"You said that about me, too, once," she replies, because she's suddenly sick with how easily her husband passed over his family, with how what she gives him isn't enough anymore. She wonders if it ever was, or if he simply convinced himself of it at some point in time, when he has younger, foolish.

She says his name again, softer this time, as she hurries at his side. He’s done this so selfishly that she can’t actually not understand him. She takes his hand; he accepts her touch for now.

"I love you, Eliza," he says, and that just makes her feel less adequate to receive such words.

"And yet, Alexander.” She can’t keep the bitterness, the despair from seeping into her words.

“And yet, I am not throwing away my shot.”

He pushes away her hand, pushes her away. For a moment, as she’s balancing on her feet, she wants to explode right into his face, raises her shoulders to do exactly that.

  *******

She's watching the afterbirth of a nation, counting down the days until her husband will reach out for her and the family, the home she created just for him. She's watching the tension grow, knowing that that day might as well never come. She hugs Philip closer to her chest, kissing his forehead and his eyelids, making him laugh when she breathes hot air near his ear. Eliza smiles, but it feels like crying, and is glad for her son, her light, her everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter hasn't been proofread; I'm sorry for any mistakes that might have slipped up. Most of this chapter has been written in a single day, and I feel devoid of all feelings after such endeavor.   
> As always, you can find me on tumblr @teavious.tumblr.com  
> I'm taking up any of you to the offer of correcting my poor attempt at French.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)!


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